A gay story: At Home, Pt. 01 I don’t know why I keep checking Grindr in the airport. I never feel less sexy than during an over-fifteen-hour-trip. At least toilet stalls have full floor-to-ceiling doors in Germany. Then again, at least in my world, toilets only really become a possibility after that fateful fifth drink. Are people actually expecting to meet someone casually, just for a chat, surrounded by the stress and freneticism of the delayed/overbooked/cancelled flights?
There is a certain intrinsic rhythm to these transatlantic trips. The boredom, the barely controlled anxiety, the relaxation after the first cup of red wine during the flight. The strange guilt about not working enough, not using the eleven cell phone-free hours to be productive, for a change. I will never understand people who say they are never as productive as during a flight. Though, to be fair, I do tend to have a lot of time to write—to think.
Unfortunately, all I can think about is Dennis. Dennis, with his enormous collection of baseball caps, his carefully trimmed body hair, his ridiculously perfect dick. Dennis, who is about as German as they come, square and strict in his ways; but also kind and passionate in bed. I mean, I was madly in lust with him since the first time we had sex, and it only got better over the course of our sixth-month affair. But it was never meant to be more than sex between us: he was in an open relationship with someone else. I was the one who sought him out at first, needing the distraction after Fernando. It still hurt, though, when we ended it. He needed to refocus on his partner; I needed to stop myself from falling in love with someone unavailable. We had an amicable non-breakup, and I thought I could be the rational, mature, twenty-seven-year-old that I am. Which I was, for sure—outwardly. But my body certainly didn’t care about the logic of it all. It had experienced pleasure with him like with almost no one before or since, and it still grieves for him, as much as I don’t allow myself to grieve for someone I never had.
I’m still thinking about him all through my layover in Houston. About the last time we met. He’d shown up, as always, with a cap on backwards, and a hunger in his eyes that only reflected mine. I made him go slow, knowing it would be the last time, wanting to edge both of us until we couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t think I’d ever kissed anyone for so long, ever given a blowjob that left my throat feeling so raw. He started fucking me in doggy, like he loved to do, before making me lie down flat on my stomach; legs tightly closed. He lay on top of me, his chest flush against my back, his arms hugging me tightly, grabbing hold of my shoulders for leverage. He then hammered my prostate so thoroughly that I swear I could hear God speaking to me. I could barely hold on to the edge of the bed, letting our desperation take over. And then, when we were both left sweaty, panting, overheated messes; I made him rim me again, made him eat his cum out of me, before sharing it in another round of decelerating, almost nostalgic kisses. “Not bad”, he said, once he’d recovered a bit of his breath, with his characteristic German expressiveness. “Not bad at all.”
Shit. So this is why people hook up at the airport. I feel like a teenager, awkwardly hiding my erection with my backpack as I go to the restroom to reposition it. It refuses to go away, but I refuse to acknowledge it further. I don’t want to think about Dennis, don’t want to think about the other idiot he was supposed to be helping me forget. The one who really got away, the one who’s going to be there at the wedding I’m flying halfway across the world for. I don’t want to think, and so I turn to Grindr for distraction. There’s a forty-six-year-old, very good-looking dude asking me for mutual hand jobs or blow jobs, less than two hundred feet away. It’s too late, though. My flight is already boarding.
It’s only a two-hour flight from Houston to the once-sleepy city in central Mexico that saw me grow up. The tiny airport is far enough away from the city that it’s completely surrounded by semi-desertic shrubland; it’s so dark outside when we land that it almost feels like arriving at the end of the world. I’m so sleepy that I only get snapshots of the taxi ride to my Mom’s house: from the nothingness around the airport; to the streets that feel so familiar and yet almost foreign to me now, with all the new construction that’s transformed the city in the nine years since I left; to the house that had been my home for eighteen years.
– – – – –
One good thing about Mexican weddings—there are no speeches, no videos, no awkward games; just dancing. Good food, good drinks, good music; you might have to sit through a stifling Catholic ceremony beforehand, but the party afterwards is worth it. Alejandra—my best friend in middle and high school—is radiant in her simple white dress, looking like a Greek goddess and happier than I’d ever seen her. After making sure to tell her just that, and nearly making us both cry in the process, I make my way to my assigned table—right next to the dance floor. Awesome. I’m sharing it with the old high school gang, all with very heterosexual plus-ones, and we’re halfway through the introductions when who but Fernando shows up. Fuck.
“Hey Stevie,” he says, his voice rumbling like a year-old memory. “Long time no see.”
“Fernando.” I reply. Fer, my body screams, I missed you. I don’t bother correcting him—it’s Esteban, not Stevie, thank you very much. Not that he’d care. I shake his outstretched hand instead, too late to hide my hesitation. “You’re not sitting at this table, are you?”
He chuckles nervously. “Missed you too, Stevie,” he says. And, to break my lengthening silence, “wanna introduce me to your friends?”
My friends who, thankfully, act as if they didn’t notice our awkward exchange. My mind reels through the pleasantries. This is Fernando, you know, he was three years above us in school. We were living in the same city in Germany, became friends there, but he came back to live here last year. Has it really been a whole year already? I can’t help but regret the day that I introduced him to Ale, to whom he’s no doubt become close—most of their other friends have long left this city for greener pastures. Of course we would have to sit together—the two single gay guys at the wedding. And of course Ale planned this—she’s never been particularly good at leaving well enough alone.
At least Fernando is as charming as ever. He joins the conversation easily, laughs good-naturedly at the in-group jokes even before I explain them to him. It takes all my willpower not to ogle him throughout dinner—to let myself enjoy the wine, the cocktails—the playful mixture of ten-year-old and ten-minute-old gossip. But then the dancing starts, and there’s no way I can avoid confronting his looks. Boy, has the last year done him good. He is all strong angles: thick eyebrows, sharp nose, tight fade. He’d always been on the skinny side of athletic, but he’s filled out now, and I can only imagine how he looks under his fitted suit. It’s too much, too soon; I start to zip through the party, dancing with anyone who will keep me far away from him. Fuck, I should really just call it a night.
Of course I end up checking Grindr, instead. I hadn’t really planned on hooking up today—I don’t see my old friends that often—but my veins are boiling with mezcal, and I need to find someone to take my mind off my not-plus-one. There’s nothing but anonymous profiles, though, bare chests and gray silhouettes, besides an older uncle of the groom that I’m definitely going to be avoiding all night. I don’t recognize the chests, don’t want to know who the silhouettes hide; I turn off my phone, chasing after the waiter that keeps bringing tequila shots. The DJ turns up Caballo Dorado and I have to join the choreography; my feet as clumsy as ever, but the steps ingrained over countless parties over the years. It switches to Bad Bunny, somehow, to Gaga, to 90s Mexican pop; and I’m dancing with Alejandra’s little sister and her college friends, breathless with laughter; and there’s a too-cute guy that I hadn’t really noticed before, his mop of brown hair right under my chin, his button nose against my ear as he asks me if I want to catch a breath of fresh air.
A room in the hotel right next to the venue was not exactly my idea of fresh air, but I don’t really have time to joke about it. Alonso—or was it Alfonso?—is desperately kissing me, sloppy kisses with maybe too much tongue but just the right amount of impatience. I usually prefer to take my time, to let the tension build; but it’s so easy to let his unbounded energy take over. We undress at a breakneck pace, but he’s much faster than me, and before I know it I’m being pushed back onto the bed, my turquoise tie still on my neck, my shirt only half undone, my pants and briefs on my ankles. He’s down on his knees in front of me, fully naked, the very picture of debauchery as he greedily stuffs his mouth full of my cock. It’s not exactly small—longer than most—but he takes it like a pro, never gagging, opening up his throat beautifully and swallowing it whole. I stroke his cheeks softly, his soft hair; hold on to his shoulders as he speeds up. He keeps his eyes closed, completely in his own world, furiously jacking himself off. It’s not long before he’s cumming all over my leg, his whole body spasming, and his choked moans on my dick bring me over the edge. I fill him with a week’s worth of frustration, and he swallows every last drop, softly licking me clean when I’m done.
There’s not a lot to say after that. We lie together on the bed while we come down, and he burrows his face in the crook of my neck, hugging me tightly. I only find the energy to get up when I notice he’s breathing with the regularity of sleep. He’s barely awake when I come out of the bathroom, my leg now free of dried cum and my tie properly fixed. I kiss him good-bye, thank him; he’s already softly snoring when I close the door behind me.
Fuck. How is it that I’m even less ready to face Fernando after this orgasm? Not that it should surprise me. If Dennis’s dick wasn’t enough to get over him, no amount of sex is ever going to do the trick by itself. I drag my feet down the stairs to the ground floor, not in the mood for elevators, only just managing to plaster a smile on my face when I reenter the venue. A soft, sexy bachata is playing, and the dance floor still looks full; but I go straight to our table, where the gang’s currently hanging out, taking a break from all the dancing. It only takes a few minutes for me to notice that Fernando is wonderfully, mercifully, tragically gone.